


Mothering Sunday

by aljohnson



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Family, possibly weepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aljohnson/pseuds/aljohnson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As yesterday was Mother's Day in the UK, a little Turner family fic that leapt into my brain late last week and wouldn't go away.</p><p>It's 1959, and the cubs are making cards for their mum's for Mother's Day. And a Craft badge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Craft badge....

**Author's Note:**

> If this could be considered a "missing scene" then it would fall before my "Different" fic. I have assumed that Patrick and Shelagh finally managed to get married in mid to late February.

“Right then Pack, who knows what Sunday is?” asked Chummy in her best Akela voice.

“The day after Saturday?” replied Jack cheekily, as quick as a flash.

“Less cheek from you young Jack please” responded Chummy, looking over her glasses at him in disapproval.

“Sorry Akela” said Jack, looking repentant.

“It’s Mothering Sunday” said Timothy Turner, sitting on a chair on the other side of the circle and speaking quietly.

“It is” said Chummy, smiling brightly, “well remembered Timothy Turner”.

Chummy and Fred exchanged looks, the boy was quieter than he usually was, but at least it was better than this time last year….

_“Fred, we need to think of something for the pack to do to mark Mothering Sunday, but I admit to being a little, well, concerned about Timothy Turner” Chummy had looked anxious as she addressed the subject with Fred after Pack one night in early March._

_“The Doctor’s boy? Hmm, yes, tricky. Have you spoken to Doctor Turner about it?” asked Fred, considering the situation: there were other boys in the pack who were without a parent, but it was usually the father. Sometimes that was just because they were away at sea, although sometimes they decided never to come back, presumably making new, easier lives for themselves away from the chaos of Poplar; but some had gone away on National Service and never returned, forever destined to be remembered in some corner of a foreign field; still others had succumbed to the scourge of TB or Shingles._

_“I have not had the opportunity. I was hoping I would be on a delivery with him and would have the chance to mention it, but we never seem to get the same cases. He mostly seems to get called out to Sister Bernadette’s deliveries, but I suppose, as a Senior Midwife that she does get the more complex cases which require his advice and assistance. How do I deal with the fact that he doesn’t have a Mother to give anything to?”_

_“He will always have his mother in his heart. Maybe we can do something that isn’t about making a present or a card; maybe we can do something about the boys’ favourite times with their mothers? I’m sure they’ll be doing a card at school, won’t they?”_

_And so it had been decided last year not to focus on the present or the future, but rather on the past. The cubs had drawn pictures of themselves with their mothers, and Timothy had been able to join in, his memories of his mother still fresh enough and plentiful enough that he could focus on the happy times, rather than the sad. He had drawn a picture of him and his mum and dad on the beach at Southend, enjoying a picnic in the sunshine._

_Chummy had been surprised when Doctor Turner had sought her out after church that Sunday to thank her for her consideration; he had been somewhat misty-eyed at the time, but had taken a moment to say how much he appreciated the gesture. She realised then that it was days like those which were the hardest for both the father and the son._

 

…”Now, we’re going to start work on our craft badge this week, and the first part is to make a card for Sunday, for you to present to your mother. Jack, as you are obviously so full of energy, please hand out the card and coloured pencils”. Jack moaned as he rose to his feet and started handing out the items. The other boys chattered excitedly, discussing their plans for card designs. Timothy sat looking awkward, his legs dangling in the calipers he now had to wear. Jack handed Tim his sheet of card and passed him some pencils. Once he’d been round the rest of the circle, Jack collected another chair and put it next to Tim so he could lean on it. Sitting on the floor still wasn’t an option for his friend, and he wanted to help if he could.

“Did you manage a word with the Doctor this year?” whispered Fred, keen to avoid the cubs overhearing them.

“Unfortunately not. He seems to be even busier than ever now, and I didn’t think it was something to talk to Shelagh about; it might destroy any ‘surprise’ factor. And what with the wedding being delayed until just a month ago, I felt too awkward about the whole thing. I don’t even know what Timothy calls her.” The awkwardness felt by Chummy in this regard manifested itself in her body language, as both she and Fred observed the boy. They watched as he took the card offered to him by Jack.

“Right then Pack, what I need you to do, before you start anything, is have a think about your design. Do you want to draw your picture so that it is ‘portrait’ like this” Chummy demonstrated, “or ‘Landscape’, as Bagheera is showing you”, Chummy indicated Fred, who momentarily held his the same way as Chummy, before quickly tilting the card round following an admonishing look and a round of giggles from the assembled cubs. Fred grinned broadly as the cubs picked up their sheets of card and tilted them back and forth enthusiastically.

“I also need you to think about design. You need to leave enough room for words….”

“What sort of words Akela?” asked Jack, keen to be top-dog.

“Well, you have to express the sentiment you feel. It can be something as simple as ‘Happy Mothering Sunday’ or ‘With love for a special mother’…” the Cubs giggled nervously, some of them feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the prospect of expressing emotion.

“What’s important boys, is to show your mum that you love ‘er, yeah?” said Fred, interjecting before Chummy could issue a further admonishment, “it’s about showing gratitude, that is, thanks, for everything your mum does for you. And think for a minute about how much your mum’s do, yeah? They cook and they clean, and some of them will go out to work as well, and they look after you and all your brothers and sisters, and they don’t get nothin’ but grief off the lot of you for most of the time. This is your chance, yeah, to show how much you appreciate them”.

“Thank you Bagheera” said Chummy, pleased that Fred was connecting better with the Cubs than she was. She was struggling herself somewhat; her relationship with her mother was still poor since she had married Peter late last year.

“So: orientation, that is, which way round your card will be; design, that is picture; and words, that is, what you want to say. Crack on boys, you have twenty minutes”.

Chummy and Fred stood watching the boys, some of the younger ones piling the colours on haphazardly, the enthusiasm more apparent than any consideration for skill. Jack and Tim were both more focused, Jack working on the lettering of his card, anxious to get his spelling correct.

Tim was quietly sketching a design, bending his arm around the card as if to shield it from general view. Fred exchanged glances with Chummy and moved over to check on the boy.

“All right Timothy, how’s it going?” asked Fred, inelegantly squatting on the ground to bring himself on a par with Tim.

“Good thanks” said Timothy, still keeping his arm around the card.

“Need any help or advice with this?” asked Fred, trying to make his enquiries seem light.

“I think my words are going to take up quite a bit of space. Is that all right?” asked Tim, looking up at Fred now.

“Well, don’t forget you’ve got the inside as well, you can probably write more in there, make the outside more about the picture, yeah?” said Fred, still unsure as to how Tim was approaching the task.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Do I have to put words on the outside? Now that you mention it, it might be best to put all that on the inside.” An idea was forming in Tim’s mind as to how to complete this task whilst avoiding the word ‘mum’.

Tim liked Shelagh, he really did, and she did all of the stuff that mums did, but it was all still so new, especially with him having been ill. He was gutted that they’d had to delay the wedding because of him, and he wondered whether maybe he’d feel differently about Shelagh if she’d been married to Dad a bit longer. He was faintly aware that there was talk of a ‘baby’, but he thought that was probably a way off yet; he knew babies took nine months, and Dad and Shelagh had only been married for just over one. He rolled his eyes remembering them mooning at each other last week for their ‘one month anniversary’. But if there was going to be a baby then Shelagh would be its mum, and Dad would be its Dad, and he’d feel a bit weird calling Shelagh something else if the baby said ‘mum’.

This all felt a bit odd to him, and he decided that for the moment he’d not worry about it until he had to. This whole ‘mum’ thing hadn’t really come up in any of the talks he’d had with Dad, and he wondered now what his Dad would think. He resolved to wait for a better time to have a talk with him about it.

For the moment, he was thinking about what Akela had said, and what Bagheera had talked to him about, and was going with not putting any words on the outside. If he put ‘mum’ or ‘mother’ on the outside of the card, Jack would certainly wind him up about it, and he wanted to avoid that. Jack was his friend, but he was sometimes a bit, well, tactless.

Tim carried on drawing intently, deciding that his picture needed to convey something Shelagh liked, and that it was the words inside where he would express his thanks. An intensive twenty minutes followed, and the chatter in the room died down as each boy gave his most focused attention to the task in hand. As they finished, some of the boys started showing theirs to the others, but Tim kept his tightly hidden on the chair.

Chummy came over to him, “Timothy, do you want to show that to me? I promise I won’t show the others if you don’t want me to” she reassured him. Tim nodded and held out the card nervously. Chummy looked at the design and smiled, opening the card to read the words inside. They were brief but heartfelt, and Chummy felt a tear prick in her eye. She quickly controlled herself and handed the card back, “that’s lovely Tim, I’m sure it will be appreciated”.

“Now boys, don’t forget to keep these safe, and give them to you mother on Sunday” she instructed. Bringing the cubs back to attention, Chummy wound the meeting up, dismissing the boys and watching as Jack helped Tim from his chair and walked out of the building with him.


	2. Crafty breakfast in bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim loses all sass in the face of emotional intensity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Patrick isn't a morning person.

On Sunday morning Shelagh was awoken by the smell of fresh toast and brewing tea. There was a faint knock on the door of the bedroom. Patrick gurgled in his sleep and rolled over, as Shelagh reached for her glasses, the door opening as she adjusted them.

Timothy carefully walked in, his balance still a little precarious, especially given the tray he was carrying. How the boy had even made it up the stairs she didn’t know.

“Timothy, what’s all this?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“It’s for you” said Tim. “Can you wake Dad up, preferably before his snoring shatters the china?”

“Timothy!” reprimanded Shelagh, trying to suppress a smile, “he only snores when he’s been out late at work, you know that.” She leaned over and shook Patrick gently. He cuddled up into her side instinctively, nuzzling his head against her hip. Shelagh shook him somewhat more insistently. “Patrick, wake up, Timothy has something for us”.

At this Patrick roused instantly, rolling back over and noting the boy standing there, the tray delicately held in his arms.

“What? Tim, oh, hello. What’ve you got there? And how did you get up the stairs?”

“It’s mostly for Shelagh, but you should be awake too, and I got up the stairs carefully, I’m not a cripple you know” said the boy, indignantly.

“Your father just worries about you Tim, that’s all” said Shelagh, eager to keep the peace.

“Here you go” said Tim, moving towards the bed. He deposited the tray carefully between the two adults. It was laden down with a towering pile of toast, a teapot, two cups, a milk jug and a single tulip in a stem vase.

Patrick suspected Tim had liberated the tulip from the bunch on the mantle downstairs, and a brief exchange of eye-brow wiggles between father and son seemed to confirm that fact.

“Well this is unexpected” said Shelagh, starting to pour the tea, and tucking into a slice of toast. Tim shifted his balance, the callipers making the movement more noticeable. He reached his hand into the pocket of his dressing gown, and pulled out the now slightly dog-eared piece of card.

“This is for you” he said, offering the item face downwards. He realised now he should probably have tried to get an envelope.

Shelagh looked confused. “For me? Why?” she asked.

“s’Motherin’Sunday” whispered Tim, quietly, not making eye-contact.

“Sorry?” said Shelagh, who hadn’t been able to make out what Tim had just blurted out.

“It’s Mothering Sunday” said the boy, only slightly more audibly.

“Oh” said Shelagh, looking to Patrick for guidance. Patrick was investigating the stack of toast, and considering whether it would be cheeky to send Tim to fetch some sugar.

Patrick realized Shelagh had looked towards him, “sorry. Good toast Tim, well done” he smiled broadly towards the boy, who was still shuffling nervously from foot to foot.

“You have to read it. Akela said the words were important” TIm said; all his usual bravado and sass subsumed by over-whelming feelings of uncertainty and doubt.

“Oh, so you made this at Cubs?” asked Shelagh. She turned the card over in her hand, the picture now clear to see. It was a very good attempt at a bunch of tulips in a vase, sat on a table covered with a gingham cloth. It was just like the table cloth they had downstairs, and Shelagh realized now that Timothy had casually hinted to Patrick that he should buy her some tulips two days ago. Those flowers now adorned the vase on the mantle which was remarkably similar to the one on the front of Tim’s card. There were no words of greeting on the outside of the card, and Shelagh tentatively opened the carefully folded sheet to read what was inside.

Shelagh knew that, like his father, Tim could use remarkably few words if he felt like it. She read through the words written in the card, whilst Patrick leaned over her shoulder.

 

_“To Shelagh._

_Thank you for everything you do for me and Dad. Thank you for looking after me when Dad is at work, and thank you for cooking so that I don’t have to eat Dad’s awful attempts at food anymore. Thank you for loving me as much as you love Dad, and thank you for making both of us happy._

_And thank you for saying Yes when I asked you to marry him._

_Lots of Love,_

_Timothy.”_

 

Shelagh felt Patrick squeeze her gently as she reached the end of the carefully worded message. “Yes, thank you” he whispered into her hair, kissing her neck as he did.

“Dad, stop it!” cried Timothy, “you’re being icky again”

“Both of you stop it,” admonished Shelagh, sniffing away a tear, “come here Tim” she held her hands out and Tim carefully moved round the bed to Shelagh’s side. He sat down forcefully on the edge of the bed as Shelagh gave him a big hug, clinging on as if for dear life. “This is lovely, thank you. And thank you for writing what you did. I love you and your Dad so much, and you’ve made me so very welcome. Thank you”.

Shelagh heard the tray being shifted and felt Patrick’s arms enveloping her from behind, Tim still wrapped in at the front of her. “Really, thank you, for everything.” whispered Patrick, lying his head on top of Shelagh’s, “I am so glad I managed to find you.”

“And I’m so glad I found the two of you.” replied Shelagh, a tear starting to fall down her cheek.

“Happy Mother’s Day” whispered Tim, hugging Shelagh more tightly than before, “I love you.”


End file.
